


Vaulting Ambition

by LadyFangs



Category: Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Betrayal, Eventual Romance, F/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-09 03:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13472427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: They meet when they can. Only when their ships are close—when travel is possible in hours, instead of days.Shuttle transfers only, maintaining a safe distance. He ensures his crew’s loyalty as the Emperor’s top advisor. She ensures hers, as the emperor’s daughter.It is possible, yet dangerous. One wrong move, one slip …and they are done.There is freedom when one knows death is the only outcome.





	1. Chapter 1

 

They steal the time when they can get it. Like ships passing in the night—silent in the shadows, slipping past watchful eyes, monitored cameras.

He knows the hiding places, the back halls, the abandoned decks, the rarely used corridors. And it’s these he uses to go where he needs, and wants to be.

“You could be killed for this,” she says as he enters her quarters like a ghost, languishing momentarily in the darkened vestibule, silent, yet observing. Ever watchful.

Ever present too.

As he has always been.

“I would never allow it,” he speaks finally, stepping out slowly as he removes his jacket, his shoes, his shirt.

They do not speak with words.

.

.

“What is that on your neck, Michael?” She asks softly as they dine. The chink of china breaking up the extended silence. It has been months of this—her usually dominant daughter, docile, pliant.

A mother knows.

Mothers always know.

Michael confirms it with a touch to the spot, and Philippa sees it—the soft flutter of lashes. The almost imperceptible shift of her body and the hitch of breath.

“Who is he?”

“I do not know of what or whom you speak.”

It is a lie. They both know it.

Philippa frowns.

“What have I warned you about, Michael?” She says. “Love is wasted here. Love is _weakness_. And predators can sense weakness.”

Across from them, at the other end of the table, Gabriel eats, quietly, appearing more intent on his meal, than on any conversation.

“Captain Lorca,” The emperor stands abruptly, bringing dinner to a halt. The guards around them snap immediately to attention, and he does too. Bowing, as is customary.

“Emperor.”

“I sending you on patrol. Aluris Prime, the Centauri sector. Dismissed.”

He leaves abruptly, passing Michael on his way out. She looks to him, but he does not look back.

He cannot look back.

To look back is to admit that he is guilty.

To look back is to confirm suspicion.

To look back is to doom them both.

So for her, he does not.

He moves past as if she does not matter. No more than any of the others ever mattered. A notch and a number.

 Michael’s eyes follow him out the door. Her face….

Philippa comes back, and kneels before her daughter, taking her chin into her hand.

“Look at me,” she commands.

Michael does, too angry and hurt to speak. And Philippa can see the fire in her eyes—the same fire she had before, before love snuffed it out.

“You will take the Shenzhou. And you will patrol the Anlanda sector. Do not cross me, daughter. I love you, but love, as I have said, is a weakness. And weakness here, is death. Do you understand?”

She nods,still refusing to speak, and takes her leave.

Philippa watches her go.

Opposite sides of the quadrant. The ships will never meet. Put space, and time between them. It would be a shame to have to murder a capable commander such as Lorca.

But she will, if she must.

Mothers know.

They always know.

.

.

They meet when they can. Only when their ships are close—when travel is possible in hours, instead of days.

Shuttle transfers only, maintaining a safe distance. He ensures his crew’s loyalty as the Emperor’s top advisor. She ensures hers, as the emperor’s daughter.

It is possible, yet dangerous. One wrong move, one slip …and they are done.

There is freedom when one knows death is the only outcome.

He grips her hips as she rides him, thrusting into her deeply, watching her face as he kisses her chest, her back arched against his knees.

It is passion fueled by fear. Love. Consequence.

Suddenly, he stops, catching her by surprise. But he pulls her close, stilling her against him as he lowers her down to her back, coming to rest on top of her, and her thighs engulf him again.

He is not her first. Nor she, his. But they are for each other only, now.

Fate be damned, and so are they. Yet both remain defiant.

.

.

“How many times will you stick your cock where it doesn’t belong, Gabriel?” Philippa comes to stand in front of him, the toe of her boot inches from his face as he is forced to the ground and shackled. He winces, yet doesn’t cry out even as a sharp knee to the back pins him.

The force of her boot to his face makes his head snap back, the blood from a broken nose begins to pool quickly on the floor. But pain is temporary. And while war is worth fighting, he knows enough to choose his battles carefully.

From above, Philippa stares down at Gabriel with disgust.

“I gave you an opportunity,” she says. “And you threw it in my face. I warned you to stay away from her. And you disobeyed me. I will make sure you suffer for it.”

“Take him to the Charon,” she tells her guards. “And make sure he can see the view.”

He is dragged from the shuttle bay.

The last thing he sees is his ship—all 200 crewmen and women onboard—destroyed.

“I will slaughter everything you hold dear,” Philippa tells him.

.

.

“Captain Burnham, an incoming transmission for you,” the communications officer says. “It is marked private.”

“Transfer it to my quarters,” she says, stepping down from the chair and striding toward the ready room.

“Seal doors.”

 _“Doors sealed.”_ “Computer, activate transmission.”

Her lover’s face appears. The message, automated.

“If you are receiving this, Michael,” Gabriel says, his eyes soft, “then I am likely dead.”

No.

_Oh please, no…._

She blinks, in disbelief.

The last moments of the Buran are sent through. And as she watches, her disbelief becomes rage.

But there are no tears.

Tears, she knows, are wasted here.

.

.

“What ails you, daughter?” Philippa continues eating as Michael sits quietly, back straight, eyes ahead, not looking toward her or anyone else. Inwardly, she smiles.

“Is the Kelpien not up to your exacting standards? Or have those standards…slipped, recently?” she says, taking another sip of her soup.

“I am well, Emperor.”

Emperor.

Once upon a time, it was Mother.

A time before she grew up. A time before she learned the truth. A time before Gabriel. A very, very long time ago.

Michael closes her eyes, and takes the first sip of soup—something for her hands to do, to stop the trembling. But in the momentary darkness, she sees it all so clearly. What she could do. What she must. So no other child has to grow up as she did.

Philippa—her “mother.” Her captor. Her tormentor.

To punish a child for the sins of the parents…

“Why did you kill them?”

“I do not know of whom you speak,” the emperor says, taking a drink of wine.

“My parents.”

At that, the two women lock eyes. The silence becomes deafening.

Michael can feel the rush of blood in her veins. The pounding of her heart echoes in her ears. Yet she remains still, waiting.

“So that’s what Gabriel told you to sway you to his side,” Philippa laughs darkly. “Did he ever tell you he was the one to carry out my order?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And yet, you believe him. You should know better, Michael. You know what he’s capable of. Do you not remember Ava? Katrina? Ellen? You were a child, but still…so many, many more. What makes you think you were special, Michael? Do you honestly believe he loved you? That he even could?”

“Stop it.” The words singe, like a phaser burn to her heart.

“No. I will not stop it,” The emperor says, now standing, taking her time, and circling her “daughter.”

“Your parents died because they were traitors to the Empire. And Gabriel will die because he is a traitor as well. I told you that love was a weakness, and yet still you defy me, Michael. So that makes you a traitor, too.”

“Guards!”

They move in quickly as Michael stands, fully prepared to defend herself.

“Take her to the brig.”

She is grabbed before she can move and carried away.

The arresting guards are quickly disposed of by imperial troops. And as she steps over the corpses, Philippa delivers a final order to the new ones who have no memory of what has led up to the deaths of their comrades.

“Clean up the mess.”

She will execute Lorca. And she will make Michael watch before she kills her too.

.

.

He will not go gently into the night.

And he will rage against the dying of the light.

The agony booth earns its name, he thinks bitterly, as the screams are forced from him. In its way, it is like a soothing balm to his shattered, frayed nerves. Yet while his body grows weaker, his mind is never and will never be broken.

The doors to the brig open, and the machine momentarily cuts off, allowing him to slump against the walls.

But he sees her as she is ushered into a holding cell across from him and sealed in.

The guards leave. Sealing the doors. It is just the two of them.

“Gabriel. Can you hear me?”

In her face he sees the relief. He sees something else too, that he cannot deal with at the moment. At the moment, he knows the plan is working.

There are no guards.

“Are you ready, Michael?”

She nods.

They wait.

The doors to the booth open, and he takes the first steps, straightening his bent body.

There are still allies here. It is time for them to go.

Quickly, he keys in the access code, releasing her, and she comes to him, and takes his hand.

“The Jeffries tubes,” Gabriel whispers. “We’ve got 10 minutes.”

A brusque nod is her reply, and they go quickly, climbing up to the ceiling and removing the plate, slipping into the vent before replacing the cover, and begin to crawl.

 He knows this ship inside, and out. He designed it. A weapon of war. An instrument meant to conquer worlds. They go, keeping their movements light, their breathing shallow. He stops. She does too as he turns, raising a finger to his lips.

 They’re here.

 Shuttle bay.

It is abandoned. But they know it will not last.

A panel is removed, and they slide down, quickly, running across the expanse until they reach the shuttle Burnham came in on.

She opens it, and he climbs in, but she hesitates.

“They’ll find out what we did,” she whispers to him.

“Yes. And believe me, my team knows the consequences.”  He reaches out his hand to hers, looking her in the eye.

“Do you trust me?”

She bites her lip, considering it.

“The people who helped us…”

“Will all be killed. But we need to live. I need to live. And I need you to live too. Do you trust me, Michael?”

He beckons to her. “Michael…this is bigger than us,” Gabriel cajoles.

“Do you love me?”

The question takes him off guard.

His eyes glance toward the sealed shuttle bay doors, knowing they’re running out of time. It is the worst moment for her to ask this question.

“We have to go, Michael.”

“Do you love me? Did you kill my parents?”

It has not left. Philippa’s insidious words. It has seeped into her thoughts. Challenging everything she thought she knew, even her love for him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Lorca says reaching into the shuttle and grabbing a phaser. He hits her across the head with the butt of it, knocking her unconscious, her body slumping into his arms. He carries her into the shuttle.

They take off, right as the doors open.

But the imperial guard is not fast enough. Lorca keys in a set of coordinates. And they are gone, in a snap of light, their warp trail quickly fading.

.

.

From her bridge, Philippa winces from the light of the shuttle as it disappears into space. She knows exactly what has happened. Why it happened.

 And so she waits, knowing one day Michael will return. And she will have Lorca in tow. There are only so many secrets that can be kept. And the truth will break Michael far more than any lie ever told.

The way for Gabriel to die will be by Michael’s hand, not hers. And it will be a most cruel, deserving death for him.

“The prisoners have escaped,” a messenger comes with news she already knows. “Should we go after them?”

“No.” She commands, “Spread the word. Gabriel Lorca has killed Captain Burnham. He is now a fugitive of the Empire. Round up Lorca’s accomplices, anyone loyal or even partial to him, and execute them. There will be no witnesses.”

The messenger bows and departs, leaving her to stare out at the wide, sparkling expanse of space.

“Oh Michael.” She speaks to herself. “You will learn that love is wasted here.”

Lorca took from her. And now she will take from him.

Michael is just another casualty of war.


	2. What's Past Is Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to those who left kudos and reviews on the other version--This story accidentally double-posted. I've got no idea why. But I saw you, and I thank you, and I hope you drop another line!

**Chapter 2**

 “The rebels are in the Corridan sector,” Lorca strides into the great hall, as the court salutes him. There is only one he answers to. _Her_.

Before the wall of gold, he bows sharply and quickly rises. It is a position he does not like to hold for long. Just enough to show respect. Not long enough to be seen as groveling. Those who do disgust him.

“We have them pinned down. Defeat is imminent. What do you want done with their leaders?”

The wall of gold turns to face him slowly. Emperor Philippa Georgiou. Conqueror of Worlds. Slayer of alien races. At one time, they were in it together. But she outsmarted him, slowly assimilating political power as he commanded her armies. They have an agreement now. She controls the political machine. He controls the empire’s military might. How long it will continue, he does not know. He has never been satisfied with it. Nor content. But he knows eventually the time will come. And he must remain at the ready. Ever loyal. At least, outwardly.

 “Kill Michael Burnham and his wife. Publically. Slowly. Make them an example to the others. And destroy their city and rebel base. Show the rest what will happen if they defy us,” Georgiou commands. “Execute any survivors.”

She turns away, and he bows once again, and takes his leave briskly.

Michael Burnham. A traitor to the cause. A waste really, all that intellect. He served the empire well. Until he didn’t. But so be it. This is their way.

.

.

The buildings still burn. Flakes of ash drift to the ground, as if a gray snow. The roads are turned to rubble now from the bombardment. And for miles it is nothing now, except a wasteland.

He walks among the decay, observing dispassionately as his troops systematically round up the final few, and carry out the emperor’s orders.

The execution of Michael Burnham and his wife was done publically in the square—broadcast throughout the empire for all to see. Mandatory viewing. And he ensured it was done as slowly as possible. Agonizers turned on high—singing the skin, making the eyes bleed, and every other orifice too. He smiled as the systems were turned off and the doors opened. The woman was already dead. But the man had reached for her, in the throes of his death, only for Lorca himself to stomp on the hand. A direct shot to the head had ended it.

A very, _very_ tiny moment of mercy.

Interesting, he thinks now as he walks around the ruins and reflects. In the final moment of death, Michael Burnham reached for his wife.

Even now, in the world they live in, humans still fall victim to sentiment. And die for it.

He shakes his head as he steps over a body. Yet when he looks up, he finds himself standing in what remains of the doorway to the place Michael Burnham called home.

A home.

He scoffs at that. What kind of person has a “home”?

Still, he walks through. Everything is singed, scorched, the windows blown out, the furniture charred, glass scattered along with ash on the floor. Traces of blood. Here, it is quiet, a sharp contrast from the frightened, pained wails of the final few that waft in the distance from a warm breeze, heated by the flames of fires still raging.

This place will burn for a long, long time.

Lorca continues his journey. The stairs still hold, and he takes them, walking through the house—but something draws his attention. One room in particular.

Dolls, on the floor.

Drawings.

The colors.

A child’s room.

Yet, when they took the Burnham’s, there was no trace of a child with them. And intelligence had recorded no mention of a child, nor a birth.

What is this? What _all_ has Michael Burnham been hiding?

There is a clanking sound that draws his attention—downstairs. So he walks back, carefully. Listening for it again.

_Clank, clank._

Again. So he follows, into the kitchen.

 _Clank._ Right in his ear this time. The left ear.

He turns and faces a wall.

Rough hands begin to touch it, feel on it, push against it, searching. There is something there, and he will find it. Up…down…left…right…he searches.

Clank.

His right index finger catches a groove in the surface. Slight. But there. He pushes and stands back as the wall begins to turn, and when he looks down, there is no masking the surprise on his face at what he finds.

A child.

A girl.

No older than 10, with a rounded face, and wide dark eyes, staring up at him, fear in her face.

He moves toward her and she scurries back, hunching against the door, arms wrapped around her legs in an attempt to make herself smaller.  

“Please don’t hurt me.”

A small, high voice.

This cannot be real.

What motivates his next actions, he does not know. Never has he questioned killing a child, but for some reason, his hand stills on the grip of his phaser, set to kill.

“Please,” she says… “I just want my mommy and daddy.”

Mommy…and daddy….

“Who are your parents?” His voice comes out harsher than he intended and the girl flinches as if struck.

“My daddy is Michael. My mommy is Llandra.”

“Michael…Burnham?”

She nods.

“And what is your name?”

“Michael Burnham.”

He raises his phaser to her head and she squeezes her eyes shut. Tears begin to fall freely from her face.

Lorca knows he should pull the trigger. To end this. Right now. His orders and directive are clear. But his fingers hesitate on the trigger. Because even as she cries, there are no sobs. She weeps silently.

“Your parents are dead,” he tells her, still holding the gun.

The girl nods, still silent. But now she’s looking right at him. Those eyes are wide, and bright—but it is the fact that even now, in the face of death, for one so young, she no longer pleads for her life. And even as tears run down her face, there are still no sobs. Something about her is so still…

He knows in the moment what it is.

“Are you afraid of death, child?”

“No.”

The phaser falls to the ground and he takes a moment to leave her, and get control of himself.

 Never has he been so shaken, yet his hands quake, and he feels…unsteady. Something has changed here. Shifted.

 _Get it together, soldier,_ he tells himself. It is _just_ a child.

But when he turns again and looks to her, he realizes that this Michael Burnham, in pint-sized form, is not just a child.

“Come, Michael,” he orders.

She stands, but does not come.

“Come. HERE.” Forceful now. “Do not make me come get you.” He is ill-equipped at addressing children. He does not have any of his own, has never had need of them and the few times he had “accidents” those women found themselves dead.

Slowly, she walks over to him and looks up.

How very small, he thinks, staring down at her as they leave the house.

 _This will go over well,_ he thinks to himself as they go, Michael following behind him quietly, clutching a doll. _Can’t wait to see what Philippa will say._

_._

_._

Strange men and women stare at her as she follows the tall, dark man into the shuttle. He directs her to a seat and fastens her in, kneeling before her.

“Do not speak a word,” he says. “I will not tolerate disobedience. Do you understand?”

She nods, still in shock.

Her parents are…dead.

The ringing in her ears has stopped. But when she closes her eyes, she sees the faces of her mommy and daddy. Hears their last words to her. “Be strong, Michael. We love you. Don’t forget that.”

The doll in her hands is squeezed tight against her chest.

She will be strong, for them. The shuttle rocks, the movement startling her and she squeezes her eyes even tighter as they take off.

She has seen dead people all around. Her home is gone. Her friends, and family too. And now she is left alone, in the care of hard, unfriendly people. But her daddy told her to be strong. So for him, she knows she must.


	3. And the Children Shall Lead

“What do you want us to do with _that_ , sir,” a tall, slender woman looks down at Michael with disdain, her lips drawn taught in disapproval. The others have left. It is only her and the strange man now. And this woman.

“Have her fed and cleaned and taken to…”

Lorca pauses in thought.

What to do with a child on a starship? They are several days away from a rendezvous with the Emperor. And there are no… _child-things_ here.

“Place her in empty quarters. Assign a guard to her.”  He starts to go but stops abruptly and turns to his chief security officer.  “Landry, ensure she is not harmed.”

It should go without saying. But Michael is a female child. And while he has never been particularly attracted nor fond of them, he knows other men are. Even the devil draws a red line at certain things.

“Yes sir,” she says, her voice relenting somewhat as she looks down at the little girl, still clutching her doll.

“Come…what is your name?”

“Michael Burnham.”

At that, Landry gasps, and stares a moment at the retreating back of her captain before glancing at Michael.

“Follow me,” she says going in the same direction. It is a question she thinks to ask him later, when they are alone. But she does not expect an answer.

.

.

They are alone several hours later, and she waits until he’s finished and rolls off her before she asks it.

“So the leader of the resistance is a ten-year-old?” Ellen looks up at him, running her leg against his as he tucks her into his chest. The covers are on the floor. The room, hot.

“Maybe,” Gabriel tells her, inhaling and exhaling sharply.

She snorts and rolls away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, staring at her naked ass as she goes to the counter and slips out a blue pill, taking it and chasing it with Andorran wine.

“To get cleaned up,” she tells him. “Don’t want any _mistakes_ , from you.”

.

.

 

“Philippa,” he drops all pretense of formality as they speak on a closed, private channel.

“Gabriel,” she arches an eyebrow at him, mimicking his tone. “I assume the mission is complete.”

“Of course. But there is a new complication,” he tells her, not wasting a moment.

“What complication?”

“Not a what, a who.” He leans over and brings up a photo of the child on screen, so she can see it.

“Who is that? Why are you showing me a picture of a child?” She demands.

“Not just any child,” Lorca tells her, watching with mild amusement as Philippa stares at the picture, contemplatively. “ _That_ , is Michael Burnham. Michael Burnham’s daughter, that is.”

“And you didn’t kill it?”

“Now _why_ would I do a thing like that?” He cocks his head to the side, looking innocent. Her eyes narrow at him.

“Playing games now are you, Gabriel?”

“Oh come now, Philippa,” he says. “Haven’t you always wanted to hear the pitter-patter of little feet? A small minion to raise as your own? A young mind to corrupt and poison?”

He laughs at her scowl.

“Think of it. The daughter of the leader of the resistance. Now serving the empire. She could be your greatest achievement. The perfect experiment in nature versus nurture. Imagine what it would do to the resistance to see Michael Burnham’ daughter bow before the empire’s might? Sometimes, Philippa, battles are won, not on the field, but in the mind.” He taps his head.

“Anyway. We’re on-route back to base. Think about it. If you want her dead, we’ll do it. But I think she could be far more valuable alive.”

The transmission ends abruptly, and he goes to stare out at the waning expanse of blackness before him, hands clasped behind his back.

There are few memories of his own childhood. What remains are mostly vague images, scenes really, disconnected moments in time. Fragments. What he knows of his own parents are their names. They were…unremarkable. That is by design. He forced himself to forget, and he succeeded. What he does remember is the desire to not be like them. To be something different. To be…something. Some _on_ e. Now he is.

It is not lost on him, the situational irony. That he has effectively boxed Philippa in, forcing her to accept this child. Even now he questions his own actions in sparing Michael Burnham’s life. What he told the emperor is true—that the child could become their greatest weapon. And he has made the case that she is far more valuable to them alive, rather than dead. But is that it?

No, that is not it, he knows. Michael made him feel…guilty. As if what he was doing was…wrong, in some way.

But such thoughts are irrational. This is their way. The way it has always been and will continue to be. Defiance is met with death, an appropriate punishment to traitors to the empire. They must all stand together—remain strong because enemies are all around. The resistance is foolish—false dreams of equality, and justice and…peace.

 How can there be such a thing when the races are so different? Cultures, so…alien? True peace comes through assimilation. Dominance, and power. And his is the hand of justice.

Michael Burnham the father will get to watch from wherever he is, Lorca thinks, as his daughter becomes groomed to be the figurehead of the empire that will outlast those who oppose it.


	4. What Are Little Girls Made Of?

**Chapter 4**

“That is disgusting and I do not want it,” Michael sits defiantly at the table. Arms crossed. Philippa frowns.

“This is a delicacy, and you WILL eat it, _child_.” She hisses.

“It was sentient.”

“It is prey.” She slams her fist on the table. “You will eat it, or you will go hungry!”

“Then I will go hungry,” the child says, stubbornly, leaving the Emperor taken aback.

“How dare you—“

“How’s it goin’?” Lorca strolls in and pulls up a chair to the table, and begins eating his Kelpien stew hungrily, momentarily ignoring the two females at the other end.

“She will not eat. She is disobedient and defiant,” Philippa tells him. “YOU take her. You’re the one that brought her here.”

“Oh no,” he drawls, taking another sip of stew. “Aren’t you supposed to be molding her in your image? You really want her shaped into mine? Imagine how worse she could become.”

“I swear Gabriel you insufferable ass were you any other man…” she warns. But he waves it away. “I told you if you wanted her dead to just say it. And you didn’t. So…there you go.”

He takes the last sip before standing and strolling out, leaving the two of them together.

**.**

**.**

She has been here now two years. And slowly, memories of her home are fading, as she is surrounded by new people and things. But what Michael values most here, is the library.

There are books—real books, not just words on electronic PADD’s. At her home they had a few, but here, the selection is limitless. Here, she finds sanctuary away from “duty” as Philippa called it and “obligation”.

Philippa is…fine, Michael thinks, as her fingers skim through the bindings. But she cannot replace her real family. And she longs for her parents, though this, she does not dare say. Gabriel has told her never to speak of them. So she does not. And has not.

At that, she feels guilt. That she lives, while her mother and father are no more than dust, surely, by now. She feels guilt at the many who died, while here she sits, in gowns made of the finest materials in the galaxy. There have been private tutors—and she has learned, through them, new languages, foreign words that the more she uses them, the more familiar they become.

But they are only words. “I wish to learn about where these words come from,” she says one day, to the chagrin of her teacher.

“That is…forbidden, my lady,” he tells her. The words are enough.”

“But words without context—how are we to truly understand?”

“What is there to understand?” These are the languages used by those who seek to destroy us,” he tells her. “To understand these words is to understand the enemy. That is why I teach them to you.”

“Why do they hate us?” She asks. “And if there are people willing to ally with them, are they the enemy too?” Why would we side with the enemy if they are truly bad?”

Her questions leave him stumped. And he takes his leave of her.

“Emperor,” she asks, when Philippa comes to retrieve her. “I have a question.”

“Yes Michael.”

They walk side-by-side as those around bow to them.

She has gotten used to this—walking with Philippa. While the teachers are nervous about answering her questions, the emperor always does. And she has many, many questions.

“If the aliens are bad, why do some people side with them?”

“Because their minds have been poisoned against the true way,” Philippa tells her as they walk. “What happens when you add water to wine?”

“It becomes diluted,” Michael answers. It he character of the wine changes physically, and it differs in both taste and color.”

“Exactly.” Now, transfer that to humans. If humans were diluted…”

“Our character would fundamentally change,” the child muses. “And we would be… weakened in both taste and color?”

At that, stops and laughs, delighted with Michael’s reasoning. She bends down, coming eye level to the child. “Well, you have most of it correct. But yes. Our character would be diluted. We would not be as strong as we are. Can you see now, why we fight? We are preserving our culture, protecting it, from those who seek to dilute our power. We fight to preserve the things that make us human.”

It is the first smile she receives from Michael. And she can tell the girl is quite pleased with herself for figuring it out.

“Philippa?” She asks, somewhat hesitantly.

“Yes child?”

Michael bites her lip, contemplating it. There is something missing, from her, she thinks. Something intangible.

“I miss…”

She stops herself, remembering Gabriel’s words.

She is the only child here. There are no others. All are adults. And while she is safe, protected. She is…lonely, still.

The emperor can see it in Michael’s face. It’s her eyes. How they look sad, sometimes.

“You can say it.” It is not the command of an emperor. But of a mother as if speaking to one’s own child.

“I miss my parents,” Michael whispers.  And Philippa sighs, knowing the day would come eventually. She contemplates it.

“Loss is as natural as breathing,” she tells Michael. “There will be more, but let your grief be your own.”

Still, despite herself, she hugs Michael back when the girl wraps her arms around her waist.

 


	5. Awakening

**Chapter 5**

“Defend yourself, Michael! Arms up. Block!”

Instead she ducks as the large guard swings at her and she scampers between his legs and runs to Gabriel, wrapping herself around his.

He sighs, and tries for patience. What he wants is to throw the little girl half-way across the room, but as she clings to him, he knows he can’t. So instead, he gives her a moment, then unwraps her from his legs and squares her to face him.

“Michael. You MUST fight. There are those who will try to kill you. Usurp you. You have to defend yourself.” He pushes her back toward the guard.

“Again. Go!”

She tries again, dodging the first blow but the second lands squarely across her face, spinning her around and the last thing she sees is the room spin, and go dark.

.

.

“She won’t fight, Philippa.”

When Michael wakes, she hears Gabriel speaking. He sounds fed up. “I’m starting to think this whole thing is a mistake. She keeps running. What the hell did her parents DO to her?”

She hasn’t thought of her parents for a long time, but at the mention of the word, she whimpers, the cry catching even her off guard, and she closes her eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep as the adults stop talking. Heavy footsteps approach.

“I know you’re awake.”

One eye opens to meet the blue ones of Gabriel.

“Sit up.”

She does.

“You will learn to fight,” he says, coming to kneel at eye-level with her. “If you won’t fight the guards, you’ll fight me. But you WILL learn. It’s for your own good, and for your survival. Do you understand?”

She nods quietly as his eyes search hers. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he stands at last, seemingly satisfied with whatever he has found.

A few days later, they try again.

“Good! Very good,” he tells her as she manages to take and land a small swipe on his arm.

.

.

Michael grows older.

The swipes become real swings. And swings become punches. She learns about soft spots, fragile areas. She learns pressure points. Slowly, she gets better. And after a few years of this, she’s almost as good as Gabriel.

He notices the day she manages to knee him in the balls and he’s so damn pissed that he grabs her legs and drops her to the mat, pinning her there with his body, her hands above her head, gripped in one of his.

She looks at him, eyes wide and squirms, trying to break his grip. It’s only when she moves against him that he realizes exactly what she’s doing. What she’s trying to do. And he’s not about to let her do it.

Gabriel gets up quickly.  “No.” He says firmly, walking out. “I’ll arrange a new instructor for you.”

“But you can’t!” Michael follows behind him panicked, and he turns, stopping her.

“I _can_ , and I will, Michael. You’re just a child.”

_A child._

“I’m 17,” she says. “I am _not_ a child anymore.”

But he doesn’t look back as he goes, leaving her alone in the training room feeling the burning shame of rejection.

This, from the one person she craves approval from the most.

.

.

She slips quietly through the back halls and seldom-used passage ways, the direction familiar. Michael knows all of them, Gabriel had taught her.

But she stops when she gets to his rooms, and peeks through a vent. What she sees makes her cry, and she quickly goes back to her own suite.

The next day, she refuses to speak to him.

Philippa notices.

“What’s wrong, daughter?”

But she shakes her head. Gabriel looks up at her from across the table as they eat. But she won’t meet his eyes either. Instead, she asks to leave, and the emperor grants the permission.

“She’s growing up, Philippa,” Lorca tells her continuing to eat.

“I can see that,” she says, taking a long drink.

“She’s the only one her age on this ship,” he says, the words carrying additional weight. Georgiou puts down her cup and stares at him.

“What are you saying, Gabriel?”

“I’m saying, he tells her, “That you can’t keep her here much longer.”


	6. Hell Hath No Fury

**Chapter 6**

Memories of her parents have faded. What she knows of life has been learned here, at the Imperial Palace. The base of the empire’s power. Her shelter. Her home.

As Gabriel, Philippa and Michael walk down the hall, everyone around them bows in fealty.

It is respect. Power.

Together, they begin to examine and induct the newest of Lorca’s soldiers.

Young men, all.

Michael survey’s them, critically. She is no longer a child, though still not yet a woman. But she knows her own strength. And she knows the ways of the empire. All these men are toy soldiers. Expendable. They will die—in battle or war, through treachery or deceit. None will live for long.

As she scans the group, the men stand at attention. Formal. Proud.

But one catches her eye, and she pauses on him.

He seems to sense her gaze, and glances up at her too.

 _He is attractive_ , she thinks. And immediately catches herself.

Where had that thought come from? She has never considered another person’s physical appearance before. But as she watches him, she sees a smirk on his face. By reflex, she nods at him, a tiny smile on hers.

.

.

Lorca glances over at Michael, and follows her eyes.

He sees the soldier clearly—younger, around Michael’s age.

Well, he can’t say he didn’t see it coming.

It’s time anyway. She’s been sheltered here for years. And at least she has chosen someone her own age. Still, he thinks as he sees the nearly imperceptible curl of the crewman’s lips, and the slight tilt of Michael’s head, he may need to keep a more careful watch. To ensure she doesn’t get into too much trouble.

And will certainly watch the crewman.

.

.

In the end, it is Gabriel who catches her.

And it is humiliating.

“Please don’t tell Philippa,” she pleads with him, hands gripping his sleeve as he points his phaser at the head of her lover.

The same soldier from a few months before.

“Commander, I…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Lorca snaps at him.  “Get dressed.” The young man does, hurriedly climbing into his pants. Gabriel turns to Michael, who is still tugging on him with one hand, sheets drawn up around her chest with the other to hide her nakedness. “You too. We’ll discuss this, later.”

He storms off, furious. Not at the situation. But that she could be so careless.

And he tells her exactly that, later on. Much later. When she stands before him, shoulders squared, facing straight ahead as he reads her the riot act.

“I am sorry…”

“You apologize for NOTHING,” he shouts. “ _Never_ apologize. It’s _beneath_ you. As is the man you choose.”  

This time, she turns on him, eyes narrowing. “Then what do you expect me to do? Commander? _Who_ else is there for me?”

Her answer is in his non-answer.

“Be more careful next time,” Lorca tells her. “Remember that whoever you spread your legs for is likely considering how to climb in rank. And _you_ make for a very good kill. If you want to get _fucked_ ,” he spits the word leaning down to whisper in her ear, “then at least have them vetted.”

He leaves, with Michael staring at him, legs drawn up to her chest, the sheets around her. She shivers and holds herself feeling as if she’s been struck.

When he leaves he goes to the brig and dismisses the guards, before coming to stand before the agonizer booth, opening the door.

The man slumps to the ground in front of him, throwing up on Lorca’s shoe.

He watches, dispassionately.

“I admire your ambition,” he says, voice flat. “But she’s not for you.”

Michael’s first boyfriend is executed with a phaser blast to the head. His blood splatters across Lorca’s jacket.

.

.

“What is wrong with you, daughter?” Philippa says, glancing at Michael out of the corner of her eye. Her daughter is sullen. And lately, she has grown defiant. Keeping secrets, slinking around.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Michael snaps, then stops, and exhales deeply.

She has not seen Jordan in weeks. There has been no sign of him. His name is not on any ship’s register and yet he has not been reported dead either. It is as if he has…disappeared. She believes she knows the _how_ of it. And the _who_ , but how to speak of this to her mother?

“You can speak to me,” Philippa cajoles. “I thought you were happy here.”

“I am happy,” Philippa, Michael says. “But...” She bites her lip. A nervous habit, and one she has never been able to break.

“Michael…” Philippa leans over and rests her hand on hers.

“I think Gabriel killed one of the soldiers,” she says finally.

“Ah.” The emperor sits back.

“Yes. Jordan. I know. And, he did.”

“What?”

This catches her off guard and she looks at Philippa in disbelief. “Why? Why would he do that? Jordan didn’t --”

Philippa silences her with a cold look.

“Love is wasted here, Michael,” she says. “There’s no place for it. No room for it. Love is weakness. And you are built for something greater. Now, forget about him. Here,” the emperor leans over, chopsticks in her fingers, dangling Kelpien ganglia between them. “Have some ganglia.”

She eats.

Lesson learned.

Gabriel had warned her as well.

She will be more careful with her next lover.

And when she chooses him, she enlists Lorca’s…assistance.

“I want him,” she whispers, motioning to the man in question. He glances over, appraising, then nods.

“That one is fine,” he tells her, mildly amused. “Are you going for older men now?”

The rage is sudden and sharp, and she lashes out. “Better him than YOU,” she snaps, and storms off, leaving Lorca standing there.

He sighs heavily, and shakes his head.

 .

.

“She is starting to get into trouble. It’s time to send her out,” Gabriel says staring out into space. They are in the meeting room, just the two of them, discussing Michael’s future.

“She is not ready,” Philippa says. “What if she is…killed?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” he says drily, “I would think you…cared. Going soft, now?” He comes to stand next to her. “You know what happens when we appear…soft,” he whispers, hovering just over her shoulder. She turns quickly, drawing her sword. It comes to rest at his neck, breaking the skin and leaving a thin, red line, which starts to glisten. Blood.

“Don’t forget your place…commander,” Philippa warns. “Lest you become too…familiar.”

She puts the sword away as Lorca touches the spot on his neck, scowling at her.

“Michael goes.” He says flatly. “She survives or she doesn’t. But if she stays here, it’s your problem not mine. I’m getting tired of killing horny men.”

Philippa glares back at him.

They do not speak directly to one another for two days.

On the third day, Michael is summoned to the throne room, where Philippa sits, Lorca on her right side.

 _The right hand of God,_ she muses to herself, taking her place on the left.   _If there were a god, and he was a she…_

 “I have decided to send you out on patrol,” the emperor tells her. “You are a grown woman now. And the other lessons you must learn, you have to do so on your own. You will command the Shenzhou—my favorite ship—and you will guide her crew. There is a manifest waiting for you. Dismissed.”

.

.

Michael is nearly killed the second week onboard. Here, no one knows who she is. What she is. They do not know the imperial palace, they have never seen the face of Philippa Georgiou,  Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Kronos, Regina Andor—Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius.

Her mother.

And their leader.

As she slowly executes those who tried to kill her, she explains to them, in excruciating detail, exactly what it all means.

 And she does this publicly, in the shuttle bay, in front of the entire crew.

Time marches on.

She brings her crew to heel.  The Shenzhou begins to conquer more worlds and Michael begins to grow as a leader in her own right. As her victories and conquests mount, she ensures HER name becomes the one people fear.

No one will usurp her. And no one will take her glory. Her victories are hers alone.

“For the empire!” she shouts as fires rage all around—punishment, for those who committed treason against their people.

“For the empire!” her crew shouts, as she executes the last of the traitors. A child, no more than 10, with soft brown skin, and wide, dark eyes.

Her lovers come and go, but there is something within her that remains...dissatisfied…A void left unfilled.

The crack in the wall that’s been there all along grows with every blow she lands, every torpedo that is fired. Every life taken.


	7. Chapter 7

“Captain Burnham you have an incoming transmission.” The voice of her First Officer filters through on the comm.

“Who is it?” She demands, weighing whether it is worth an immediate response or not.

“It is the I.S.S. Buran. Captain Lorca,” Detmer says.

At that, Michael sits up in her bed, and promptly dismisses her newest consort.

“Leave.”

The Lieutenant does, stepping into his pants and gathering the rest of his clothes quickly. She rises as well, slipping on a robe, her skin tingling.

Five years since she has been home. Five years since she saw Gabriel, in the flesh. She wonders what has prompted this call.

“Computer, voice only. Patch me through.”

 It does.

“Captain Burnham speaking.”

“Captain Burnham,” Lorca drawls out her name, deliberately making the syllables longer, thicker. “So much authority, now.”

He is teasing her, she knows it.

“Well, you know how it goes, sir. Putting down rebellions here, blowing up colonies there. What has prompted this call?”

“Why are you on voice-only?” He asks. “Are you _hiding_ something, Michael?”

There’s suspicion in his voice, and she knows that tone—it is both the tone of a man well acquainted to the designs of deception and it is both a warning and a command.

 “I was…busy, when you called.”

“Huh. Still so _busy_ ,” he says. “Very well. You are to report to Daedalus. We’ve received intelligence that a rebel commander is stationed there. You are to take him alive and bring him in for questioning. Lorca out.”

The conversation ends and silence fills her room once again.

 The tingling intensifies. She feels…excited. The first rush of it that she has felt in a long time. The thrill of conquering faded years ago, but this…the promise of something more…brings it back.

“SLAVE,” she shouts into the shadows.

With heavy steps, her Kelpien servant comes.

“It is time for my morning ablutions.”

He nods. The large, antique bathtub is quickly filled, and he assists as she removes the gown and climbs the stairs, and settles into the warm water. It masks the heat between her legs.

She knows what has set it off.

But that is something to contemplate later. Now is not the time for such things. Right now, there is a mission to complete.

.

.

Two ships slide close to one another. The Buran is older, but larger, outfitted with the latest Empirical technology. It is nearly twice the size of the Shenzhou, but her ship is faster, more nimble.

The crew salutes as she strides to the transporter, her prisoner shackled between two guards that follow. They go, awash in light.

When she materializes on board the Buran she is immediately hit with a strange, sensation. Michael knows this ship. Though she has never been on it.

Before her, stands a woman with the pips of the Chief Officer.

“Captain Burnham, welcome to the Buran,” she says saluting.

Michael tilts her head, studying her.

“I know you from somewhere,” she says. “Who are you?”

“Commander Landry, Captain Lorca’s Chief Officer. Come. We will take your prisoner to the brig,” Landry sidesteps Burnham’s question. It is something to revisit later, with her captain.

 The prisoner is installed into a chamber and Burnham dismisses her guards—returning them to the Shenzhou.

“Follow me,” Landry says. “Captain Lorca is in his ready room.”

The journey to the bridge is silent. She receives open, curious stares as they walk through the corridors of the Buran, but no one dares ask anything. The ride on the turbo lift is short, and Landry turns to her, beckoning to a door on the left side.

“In there.”

The doors open into complete darkness. Or, not complete, exactly-- the only light is that from what little comes in through the window. It is there she sees his shadow.

“Hello Michael.”

“Why the mystery?” She asks stepping in, arms crossed over her chest. “Going for the dramatic reveal now?”

He laughs, low, and turns to her.

“Lights, 50 percent.”

The room becomes illuminated in a soft glow. “Is that better for you? More akin to what you like, now?” Lorca asks stepping from behind his desk and coming to stand in front of her. The top of her head barely reaches his chest, but she stands her ground.

“And your point would be…what? _You_ are not my father.”

He studies her a long time. His eyes never leaving hers. And it feels like déjà vu. Like they’ve been here before, and she stays still, until he finds whatever it is he is looking for. There is a softening. Just slight, but she sees it, and he turns away and begins to walk around the room.

“You should know by now that this prolonged conflict is not going well,” he tells her. “Our bombing campaigns aren’t as effective as they used to be.”

 “It seems as if the rebels are beginning to unite,” she says. “Hence, the prisoner?”

Lorca nods. “We need information. We need to find out who their leader is.”

“Agreed. The usual methods?”

But he shakes his head. “Imperial guards will deal with him. However, I have a personal message for you. It seems your…‘mother’ misses you.”

At that, Michael laughs, and Lorca grins and rolls his eyes.

“So, she sent you to tell me this?”

He shrugs. “You’re call. But you know how Philippa can be.”

That, she does. She has a litany of dead boyfriends and missing consorts to prove it. “When am I to report?”

“We’re to rendezvous at the imperial palace at 1300 hours day after tomorrow. How loyal is your XO?”

She considers it. “Loyal enough.”

“Good,” Lorca nods. “We may be gone a while.”

“ _We_? And who do you leave in charge of your ship when you’re gone?”

“Landry,” he tells her as if it is obvious.

“Landry…I know her from somewhere,” Michael says.

“Oh?”

“Yes. But I don’t believe I’ve met her before today.”

Lorca’s eyes meet hers once again, this time, there’s an intensity behind them that makes her…uncomfortable. She has never felt uncomfortable around him before.

“Hm. Well, sometimes, people look like. Come on, I’ll show you to your quarters, might as well get comfortable. It’ll be a long trip.”

She follows him to a room and steps in.

But again…it still feels…familiar.

“Gabriel,” Michael drops formality and stops him with a hand on his arm. He turns.

“Yes?”

“Your ship. Have I been here before?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” he says teasingly. “Have you?”

.

.

“She recognized me,” Landry says as they lay together naked under the sheets. “She recognized the ship. But she doesn’t remember. What the hell did you two _do_ to that girl?”

Lorca pulls her close and rolls on top of her, spreading her legs again with his body.

“What did _Philippa_ do to the girl,” he says, kissing her. “Don’t worry about it. Michael will remember, eventually. She’ll come around.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I suppose I just delayed the inevitable and will have to find another way,” he tells her, silencing the rest of the conversation.

But afterward, as Ellen sleeps, Gabriel stays awake, considering it all.

What he had hoped was to create a fighter. What he may have created, is a younger Philippa. A successor to the throne, not a challenger to it. For Michael’s sake, he wants to be wrong.

“Computer, activate viewer. Room 3-1-1,” he says, speaking low.

The small screen next to him comes on and he rolls over to look at it.

There.

There she is. Looking small, even in the standard-size beds that come in all crew quarters. He watches as she turns, the sheets molding to the outline of her body, and as she moves in her sleep, they slip down further, revealing so much more.

 He turns it off quickly as Ellen shifts beside him.

“What are you doing? She asks sleepily, an arm draping across his chest.

He kisses her forehead.

“Just checking up on the prisoner,” he tells her, laying back down.

.

.

She catches it.

The way Landry looks to Lorca a tad too long. The way he looks at her, smirking just slightly. She knows what lovers look like.

 _Pot calling kettle,_ Michael muses to herself as she boards the shuttle. Eventually, the prisoner is loaded on as well—in the small cargo bay beneath them. After a moment, Lorca comes too, climbing into the pilot’s seat.

“Buckled up?” He asks.

“So you’re fucking your XO?” A statement, not a question.

He shrugs. “What can I say…it’s fun to be Captain?”

Michael rolls her eyes. “So you do what you tell me not to?”

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it? Besides, my dear, quite frankly, it’s none of your business.”

“Do you love her?”

That draws his attention, and she immediately stops talking, surprised at her herself. Unaware of where it even came from, or why she asked it.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he sighs as they keep going.

“No place for that stuff here,” he tells her. “You read too many of Philippa’s books as a child. I told her some stuff you shouldn’t have had access too. Still holding on to childish dreams, I see.”

“I am NOT a child.”

“Then stop _acting_ like one!”

His anger is sudden. Lorca quickly punches in an auto pilot sequence and takes off his harness to stand up.

“You forget I have eyes _everywhere_ ,” he says, voice low, and menacing as he advances on Michael. “Even on _your_ ship. And I know _exactly_ what you’ve been up too.”

“I have done EVERYTHING you and Philippa wanted!” She pushes back. “ _I_ put down the Tarissian rebellion. _I_ bombed the Caldan’s. I have _earned_ the respect of my crew. And I have fought off _four_ attempts on my LIFE. What MORE do you want from me?” It’s her turn to be angry but before she can move, Lorca grabs her by the hands, wrapping them in his and pinning her to the spot in her chair. His face is inches from hers.

“I expected BETTER of you. I expected you to not _fall in line_ so easily. I expected you to become _more than_ the hand you were dealt, I expected…”

He stops talking, realizing he has said too much as she shies back, away from him, eyes wide.

“So I’m a disappointment to you,” Michael says blinking, feeling her face flush.

It is the first time he has ever said it aloud. The first time he has admitted it. And the words fall like a sword on her heart. It has only ever been _his_ approval she desired. His attention she craved. His _love_ …that she wanted.

“You told me never to apologize,” she says, hating the way her voice shakes. “So I won’t. But tell me, Gabriel—what it is you wanted me to do? Because I don’t know. And I don’t know how to be better than I already am.”

Her hands are released, and she rubs her wrists, now sore from his grip. Lorca settles back into the pilot’s seat, looking, for the first time, like a man defeated. It is something she has never seen from him before. For the first time, Michael thinks, Gabriel looks…old.

“Never mind,” he tells her.  “If you don’t know by now, you’ll never know. It’s a waste of time.”

She sits back, looking ahead. They ride the rest of the way in stony silence.

 _A waste_ , she thinks bitterly. _That’s what he thinks of me_.


	8. Welcome Home

“Daughter, you’re home,” the emperor steps down from her throne and approaches Michael with open arms. They embrace. Lorca bows briskly, his face a mask.

“Greetings Philippa,” she says formally.

“Oh, not mother anymore, I suppose? So, tell me of your journeys. You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” Georgiou guides them through the throng and out of the room as those around bow.

“I have carried out orders as requested,” Michael says stiffly, the conversation with Gabriel still lingering in her mind.

“Oh come, now. Just carrying out orders? No other happenings in your life?”

“Serving the empire IS my life,” she says. Philippa studies her, seemingly satisfied. “That is our calling. All that we do is in service to the empire,” she tells Michael.

Through this Gabriel remains silent.

“I hear the rebels are beginning to coalesce,” the emperor says, once they are in a separate room. “We must increase the bombing campaigns.”

“We have increased the bombing campaigns and it is not working,” Lorca tells her. “All we have managed to do is drive them together. They’ve realized there is strength in numbers.”

“Then we shrink their numbers,” Philippa snaps. He crosses his arms.

“Alright. Since you are now a military expert. Let’s hear it.”

“Again—increase the bombings.”

“Until there’s nothing left to bomb? Are you insane?” This time, he snaps back. “There is unrest in the ranks. We have obliterated cities, colonies—your campaigns are failing because you are turning even those faithful to you against you when you murder their families simply because they happen to live in the wrong place.”

“That is POWER, Lorca. It is how you exert control.”

“It is how you incite rebellion,” he challenges.

They are at a standoff, with Michael caught in the middle.

She tries to take a step back, but both sets of eyes go to her.

“What do you think, Michael?” Philippa asks. “Stop the bombing campaigns and _negotiate_ ,” -- her eyes snap back to Lorca’s -- “which is what _he_ wants?”

“Now wait a minute. I never said anything about negotiating,” he tells her. “I was talking about infiltration. We need new tactics.”

Michael looks between the two and considers it.

She knows the present way isn’t working. She has seen first-hand their normal methods failing. The rebels have become braver even in the face of death. And when people stop being afraid…they grow stronger, not weaker. Bolder, and braver.

“I agree with Lorca,” she says, surprising the both of them.

“Very well. Two against one,” the emperor says. “Fine, Gabriel. We will try it your way. Infiltrate the rebels, _if_ you can. Get us something that will put a stop to this permanently.”

He doesn’t even salute as he leaves them. Michael goes to take her leave, but Philippa stops her with a hand on the arm.

“You will go with him,” she says. “I do not trust Gabriel. And neither should you.”

She nods. “Yes, Mother.”

She tries to leave again, but Philippa speaks.

“And Michael?”

“Yes?”

The emperor’s eyes search hers, the gaze so penetrating it forces her to avert her gaze.

“Remember -- love is wasted here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies as her mother stares, long and hard. Inspecting.

“You know _exactly_ what I am talking about,” Georgiou tells her.

Only after Michael is clear, only when she is once again in her childhood bedroom, does the weight of Philippa’s words fall on her. If the emperor no longer trusts Gabriel, should she? And what has happened in the years she has been gone?


	9. The Break

**Chapter 9**

Her mind refuses to quiet and sleep refuses to come.  There are questions which have no answers and she has never been satisfied with not knowing. Michael rises and dresses, slipping out of her chambers through the hidden door Gabriel showed her as a child, and begins to wander the back halls and passageways.

She knows them by heart. Could walk them blind by now, these quiet paths where few, if any travel. He had taught her all of them.

Such a sharp contrast to where they all are now, she thinks. What a child sees and what an adult sees are separate things.

Her feet carry her to a well-worn spot, and here, she pauses, considering the path.  Gabriel had also taught her how to walk silently, so no one would hear her approach. In fact, she thinks—he had taught her many things. How to fight, how to blend into obscurity, how to be still yet listen actively. In her, Lorca had created the perfect spy. Someone much like himself.

 _No…_ Michael shakes her head. Gabriel has been there from the beginning. He bandaged her scrapes, picked her up when she fell. He is her…mentor, her counselor. There is still no greater man to her. The standard on which all others are measured, and have fallen far short.

He would not betray the empire. He would not betray Philippa and he would not betray her… would he?

Carefully, she goes, but she stops again as she sees a tall figure slip out of the shadows and begin to make its way toward her. She ducks back, as he goes past, and when she looks, she knows exactly who it is.

Waiting feels like forever. But she does until he is safely past, and begins to follow him, staying in the shadows. Lorca does not turn around, seemingly focused on his destination. And he doesn’t seem to notice he is being followed either. It is odd.

She goes where he does, until she eventually finds herself above the brig, watching him enter from below.

“Leave,” he commands the guards, and they salute and depart quickly, until it is just Lorca and the prisoner. He steps up to the cell and turns off the shield and steps inside.

 Michael controls her breathing, aligning it with the life support systems, careful to remain as still and silent as possible as she watches.

Lorca approaches the man and speaks to him.

“Who is your leader?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The usual rebel, line, she thinks.

“You will tell me the name,” Lorca insists.

“Never.”

“So be it.”

She watches in fascination as he produces an agonizer, and the sounds of screams begin to bounce off metal walls.

It goes on like this. Over and over again. When the agonizer fails to produce a response, Lorca drags the now-trembling man out of the cell and throws him into the agony booth. The settings are turned to high and the prisoner wails.

“Give. Me. A. Name,” Lorca says patiently.  “I can make it stop. I can give you relief. Just a name. All I ask.”

In the end, there is no name. But there are pleas for mercy. She has never seen Gabriel in action—and his stillness with it all is…disturbing. Never, even at her worst, has she been so cruel—opting for mostly quick deaths.

He releases the prisoner and the man slumps at his feet, promptly throwing up and losing control of his bodily functions. Gabriel begins to leave and she does too—going quickly so he does not see her.

At least her mind is relieved of one thing. That he is no traitor.

But now she questions her own reaction to what she has seen. That she had experienced something which frightens her.

That she actually felt…sorry, for the prisoner.

.

.

He stops off at his own quarters to change his shoes, the spoiled ones exchanged for a clean pair before heading out again, down the darkened halls.

No knock announces his presence. He simply walks in, and stares down at the figure lying in bed.

“I know you aren’t asleep.”

He settles down next to her body, and Michael rolls over and rises. Still in uniform.

“Why did you follow me?” He taught her well, but he knows everything. He had seen her lithe figure, as he stepped out. And had opted to simply ignore her for the moment. But now, they face one another.

“I wanted to know.”

“Know what?”

“Whether you are a traitor,” she says looking at him, her face serious.

Gabriel stands and circles the bed. “Do you believe me to be?” He asks, weighing each and every word. “Have you known me to be? And why would you think a thing like that?”

He stops, inches away from her, and she’s forced to look up at him. Michael knows what this is. A quiet display of power. Domination. A challenge.

She holds her ground. “In the past 24 hours I have been summoned to your ship—a place I have never been, and yet, I know I have been there before. I have been told the man I’ve known all my life may not be who he says he is. And I am being sent with him to infiltrate a rebel group.  Why should I trust you? I don’t even know you, anymore.”

Lorca’s eyes narrow.

“ _Philippa_ told you not to trust me. And you take her at her word.”

“Yes. She says she doesn’t trust you.”

“Funny. I could say the same for her.”

This time, it is Michael’s turn to be surprised. “What are you talking about? What has happened since I’ve been gone?”

But he shakes his head. “I wonder if you’re even ready for the truth,” he says.

“What truth?”

“You honestly don’t remember?”

‘Remember what?”

“Your childhood.”

“My childhood was here! You and Philippa were my childhood.”

But she is beginning to panic now, and her fear comes through in her words. Gabriel watches, lips drawn in the thin line.

The first thing that ever struck him about Michael were her eyes. So large, and wide and expressive. He has always been able to read in them everything—her happiness, her grief. But he sees now that she is breaking…and he wonders what will happen if he pushes her, just a little bit more…

“Your childhood hasn’t always been here. You know we are not your parents.”

But she shakes her head, refusing his words. “No. You two are the only parents I know.”

“I have no children,” he says. “And I am not, nor have I ever been your father. A teacher, yes. But NOT your father. I did not make you, nor raise you,” he says. “You know who your real parents are.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He pushes on her, harder still. “You remember the day I found you, don’t you? Do you remember _how_ I found you?”

She closes her eyes, but all she hears are screams…all she hears are bombs…

“NO! I will not let you do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything to you,” he says. “But you’ve been doing it to yourself.”

“Stop it, Gabriel!”

 “I will not stop it until you admit it. You _know_ your parents. Speak their names. Tell me who they were.”

The first tear falls, then the second.

She is crumbling, and at the crushed look on her face, he considers whether he has gone too far. Made the wrong call. But he can’t turn back now. If she is to come with him he has to know. And she deserves to know as well.

“Say their names, Michael,” gentler now, as she steps closer and she backs up until she can’t anymore. He has her against the wall. Both arms come up on either side of her head, pinning her there, looking down on her.

“They have names,” he says softly, stroking the side of her face, tenderly.  And you know them. One is just like yours,” he says, refusing to let her go even as she flinches away from his touch.

“His name was Michael…” It comes out as a whisper.

“And?”

“ _Llandra_.” More of a breath now.

 “Who were they?” He asks, voice low in her ear.

“Traitors.” She continues to try and fight it—the rising panic. The bubbling turmoil.

“Try again,” A demand.

She shakes. He can feel her tremble, and her emotions are raw, so raw they stir something deep within him. He takes her chin in hand, and turns her face toward his.

“Who. Were. They?” He will repeat this as long as he has too even as her tears pour freely now, and one lands heavily on his finger, pooling there.

“Rebels.”

“And _who_ killed your parents?”

“Gabriel…” A sniffle.

But he shakes his head. “Who killed them, Michael? _Who_ gave the order?”

“Philippa,” she gasps, closing her eyes as her legs give out and she starts to slump against the wall. Gabriel catches her on the way down, and holds her in his arms as she cries into his chest.

“Shh….” He says, rocking her gently as she sobs, stroking her hair.  “I’m here.”


	10. Ministrations

Michael cries herself to sleep, and when he is certain, Lorca picks her up and lays her down in her bed, watching as her chest rises and falls.

Now he can be assured of where her loyalties are. Philippa may have tried to turn Michael against him, but turnabout is also fair play.

Slowly, his plan comes together.

On his neck, there is still a scar from Georgiou’s blade and he touches it, remembering.

Gabriel keeps watch over Michael for the night as she tosses and turns, moaning in fitful sleep.

.

.

_Their home shudders from the force of the bombs dropping from the sky. She covers her ears and cowers in a corner, screaming—the reverberations on the ground piercing her delicate eardrums. It is both painful and frightening. Even more so, the look of terror in her parents eyes as they scramble—beginning to burn things, she doesn’t know what._

_The air begins to smell like sulfur, and as another bomb falls near it is her mother who dives for her, knocking Michael to the ground and sheltering her with her body as the windows and glass around them shatter._

_“Llandra!” Her father comes, kneeling and when her mother moves she sees their faces, now bloodied, and that blood on her. All she can do is cry as he father takes her into his arms, squeezing her tightly._

_There is shouting in the distance, gunfire, and screams._

_The sky now glows red as gray soot begins to fall._

_“They’re burning everything,” he shouts to her mother. “We have to go. Give Michael a chance…”He carries her into the kitchen and she clings to him, terrified of letting go. Her mother’s slender fingers move quickly on the wall and it turns, revealing a dark place. She grips her daddy’s shirt even harder, her face in his chest._

_“N0!!”_

_He takes her in and sets her down, gently, yet firmly removing her hands and holding her out and away from him._

_“Look at me Michael,” he says, and she does, tears streaming down her face. “I need you to be strong. Can you do that?”_

_She shakes her head as her mother comes to kneel next to her, and she wraps her arms around Llandra’s neck._

_“You’re leaving me,” she cries._

_Her mother does too._

_“It’s not forever bunny,” she says, rocking Michael. Around them, another blast. Another shake of the house. The screams and yells grow closer. It is becoming hotter as the fires encroach._

_“You’ll be safe,” Her father says._

_“Be strong, Michael. We love you. Be strong…”_

_Be strong…_

_Be strong…_

_It is the last time she sees her parents before they seal her into darkness._

_The sound of blasts is fainter now, more a reverberation and a feeling—_

_She cowers in the corner, trying to drown it out, eyes tightly closed._

_And she is still in that corner…until the next thing she sees, the next person she sees is a man, staring down at her. A man not her father…and he tells her her parents are dead._

_._

_._

When she wakes, she knows she’s not alone. The tears on her face are dry, but the remnants sticky, and her throat is parched.

She doesn’t look at Lorca as she gets up, and slowly removes her boots, her jacket, her pants, her shirt—the uniform of an officer, a captain—she wants none of it now.

The red, lace lingerie comes off too—one of the small luxuries she allows herself, and she strides past him into the bathroom, turning on the water, and watching the tub fill. She gets in and sinks down, letting it cover her head.

Here, she floats—too tired to do anything.

She contemplates death by drowning.

 All it would take is an inhale—let the water fill her on the inside, as well as the out. Be done with it. Done with Gabriel, done with Philippa…she could go away—wherever away is. This isn’t her battle. Not her fight. Her father was wrong. She’s not strong enough for this…

 _Just exhale_ , she tells herself. _Let it go_ …one breath is all it would take.

.

.

He watches as she climbs out of bed and silently strips off her clothes, her body bare before him. It is the first time he has ever seen her naked, the trail of her spine, the cup of her backside perfect and round, lean legs and breasts high, and full. But he knows the difference between seduction and sedation—this is not the former. Michael is quiet and he hears the water fill, the splash as she enters…and he waits for more. But she is silent. Too silent. And it is unnerving.

What is she doing? It is still mid-night. Only a few hours have passed since he revealed the truth but her troubled sleep and whimpers just…tore at him. He did not expect to feel so much at her pain.

 Just as he felt when he heard the anguished cries of the child he found 17 years ago in the ruins of a resistance leader’s home.

And as he dwells on it, he knows immediately what Michael is doing.

 Quickly Gabriel gets up and goes in, plunging his arms into the water grabbing her. She comes, chocking and gasping for air. There is no protest as he pulls her from the water, and quickly wraps her up in a towel before carrying her back into the room, to the bed, settling her there. Her teeth chatter, her body trembles, though it is not cold.

 In her, he sees a woman whose scars run deep.

 And he feels the desire to try and be of comfort though he knows he is ill-suited to the task.

Come,” he tells her, pulling back the blankets. “Rest.”

She lays, obedient for the moment, and he covers her and turns to resume his spot. But she reaches up to grab his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t leave me.”

It’s pleading, and pulls at him. He settles down on the bed.  “I won’t.”

“Lay with me.” So he does, and she curls up against him, and closes her eyes.

Gabriel wraps his arms around her shoulders, acutely aware of how her body is placed against his. And he is grateful that he had foresight enough to wrap her under blankets as he lays fully clothed atop them.

Michael is not a child anymore. But in so many ways, she is just as vulnerable as one.

.

.

When she wakes again, it is disorienting, and it takes a moment to place her surroundings, both familiar and not—the imperial palace. Her room on the Charon, not the Shenzhou. And when she turns, she feels someone—a man, beside her.

“Ash?”

She reaches out expecting feel the familiar, but instead she touches…cloth. A uniform.

“He must be one of your bedfellows.”

At that, Michael’s eyes fly open and she sees Gabriel, inches from her face. Her body is tucked into his, her head under his arm, and he’s looking at her with a cross between consternation and concern.

“Are you going to try and shame me, again?” She says, her fingers idling where they are. On his chest. It’s warm here. And she feels…safe. She’s also exhausted, not physically, but emotionally. Too tired to fight. There’s not enough mental energy left.

“No.” He tells her. “I understand.”

“Understand what?”

Gabriel places a gentle kiss on her forehead. It is a chaste kiss. But it makes her tingle as she snuggles closer to him. One leg brushes against his.

He shifts a bit. “Michael…” a warning as her fingers trail down his chest, slipping down.

“Hm?”

Shit.

He weighs whether to allow her to continue. What she’s seeking, he knows is comfort. Something to fill the void that’s always been there, the hole in her heart left when they killed her parents. The love he knows neither he nor Philippa gave her. What she’s been doing is searching for ways to fill the emptiness the only way she knows how.

Through sex.

 And as well as he knows himself, he knows Michael.

“You don’t want me,” he tells her, even as those long, nimble fingers begin to work at his belt, unzip his pants and slip inside.

He hisses as she wraps her hand around him and he gets hard. A purely physiological reaction, he tells himself. Involuntary.

A measured exhale.

“Do you want me?” She asks, softly.

Wide brown eyes look into his, and he sees in them her vulnerability. Her fragility.

“What we want doesn’t matter,” he tells her. “It never has.”

“It matters to me. Do you want me?”

He knows what Michael is asking, is not what she is saying. And so he answers her with action, switching their positions, pulling down the blankets and revealing her body, not a mark nor blemish on her the soft skin.

“Shhh….” He puts his finger to his lips as he pries her legs open with his body, and allows her to undress him, until they’re naked together.

He knows what she’s had, and what she hasn’t. What she thinks she knows versus what he does. And so he gives her a different experience.

There are boys, and there are men. And he knows, from the way she moans as he slides into her, that she has never been with a real man.

Until now.

There is no gentleness here.

It is as close as she has ever come to making love. She feels him all over, her orgasm so strong it makes her scream. A different sort of release. Emotional.

  _Shh_ , he says as he takes her body, secures her loyalty, and sexing the pain away, _I’m here_ , _and I won’t leave you._

It’s not sex. It is a balm to soothe a wounded, and broken heart.


	11. Loyalty

The truth is revealed when they reach the planet. When they infiltrate the rebel forces. When Gabriel takes her around, and shows her the people here—alien and human.

The “camp” is unlike anything she imagined. What she expected were armed rebels, guns at the ready, securely ensconced in a well-armored, protected compound.

 What she finds instead is a battlefield of the wounded—females and males and…children. So many, many children. All hungry. Some crying. A few staring with vacant eyes. Dirty.

“ _This_ is the rebellion?” She asks Lorca as they wind their way through, blending in plain clothes.

He nods, curtly. There is sickness, and there is death. Fragility of life.

“We _can’t_ bomb them,” she says.

“We’ve _been_ bombing them, Michael. All those towns, villages we’ve decimated—most already looked like this from the prolonged blockade.

“Blockade?” She looks up at him, surprised. “What blockade?”

The one put in place four years ago,” Lorca tells her as they continue on. “We’ve been bleeding our own people in an effort to starve out the rest.”

It makes her feel suddenly sick, and she sways on her feet. He sees it and stops, resting a hand on her back, steadying her.

“You want to know what you’ve missed these past few years,” he tells her. “This is it. Come on.”

They go until they reach the outskirts, and make their way into a barren field, a playground in charred ruins.

He stops

“What is this?” She asks.

“The rebellion,” he tells her. “Just wait.”

They do.

Soon, they’re surrounded by a ragtag group of species—Tellurites, Andorians, Vulcans, and a few humans as well, guns drawn.

Lorca raises his hands in surrender and she glances to him. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” he says. “Raise your hands.”

 She does.

 The group closes in and Lorca speaks to them.

“I want to meet the leader,” he says.

“Who is asking?”

“Defectors,” he says. And then, to Michael’s surprise, he begins speaking…in Klingon.

She is shocked, but remains silent, listening to the glottal cadence. But while she knows the language, what he is saying makes no sense. 

“Pity the warrior who slays all his foes,” Lorca says in Klingon.

 The group lowers their weapons, but Michael watches warily.

Lorca takes his hand in hers. “Come,” he says.”

They go.

 Before them, a force field begins to shimmer, in the empty place, and before her eyes, a large compound appears.

They walk up to it, and a door opens as they enter.

 The halls are low, and they duck as they go. Around turn, after turn, until she begins to feel confused. But Lorca is now guiding, she sees, and he seems set on their direction.

Eventually, the halls grow in height again and they find themselves in front of another door. It opens and Michael gasps in shock as Commander Landry comes up to them.

“Captain,” she salutes before her eyes dart to Michael suspiciously. “And… Captain Burnham, too?” There’s accusation there.

“She’s with me,” he tells her.

Lorca and Landry stare at each other a moment, communicating what, Michael doesn’t know, but Landry nods and turns away from him.

Around them are more aliens, and humans. Faces Michael recognizes, from her ship, as well as Lorca’s. People and aliens. Together. United. More than 300 people here alone, and not including those outside.

“Gabriel, what’s going on?” She asks. Confused.

He turns to her.

“I’m introducing you to the resistance,” he tells her. “We’re the rebels.”

“What? How?” She doesn’t understand. It’s not possible not…real.

“What about their leader? We’re here to meet…” she stops talking as Lorca smiles at her, his eyes soft. Kind.

“You’ve already met their leader,” he tells her. Then, lowers his lips to her ear. “You met him last night. In your bed, inside of you.”

“Join me, Michael. It’s your destiny. What your parents wanted.”

He extends his hand to her. Inside, she feels something spark to life, a flicker of light, in what felt like darkness. Before her, Gabriel shines, brighter than any star.

She takes his hand and he pulls her close, kissing her.

“Yes.” She breathes, against his mouth. Relief flooding through her.

“Yes.” More firmly now.

It’s all so clear. So very, very clear.

He smiles in her hair. Kissing the top of her head.

“We’ll make it right,” he tells Michael. “I promise, you were born to lead.”

Together, they begin to plan.

Destiny is calling. He is a strong believer in it.

His own.


	12. Tangled Webs

Michael doesn’t see Lorca’s troops turn their guns on the alien rebels and slaughter all the non-terrans in the room before leaving the planet.

They are gone by the time the Buran comes into orbit and opens fire on the wounded and sick on the ground, eviscerating everyone, and everything.

The flames burn for days afterward.

He does not tell her he gave the order to fire.

He tells her Phillipa must have done it.

.

.

“It appears their primary fighting force has been taken out,” Gabriel says calmly as they sit at Philippa’s table in her personal quarters back aboard the Charon. “But, you knew that. What’s left of them is scattered now. They should not be much of a problem. Skirmishes, is all.”

Philippa turns her attention to her daughter.

“And what of their leader?” She says, evenly. “Did you get a name?”

“No one seemed to know.” Michael says, her own voice just as level. The delicate clink of china fills the intervals of silence between words.

The emperor is not dumb.

Mothers always know.

It’s in the way Michael moves. It’s in her face—softer, now. The quiet way she tilts her head. The way her body leans—ever so slightly, imperceptible to most.

 Philippa knows.

And she is very, very angry.

“You are dismissed, Michael,” she says, voice clipped.

“But _Gabriel_ ,” she does not address him as Captain, nor commander. “Stay awhile. There are _things_ we need to discuss.”

.

.

“She is not one of your whores,” Georgiou says when they are alone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“You know very well. Michael is off-limits. What is between you and me stays between you and me,” she tells him, one hand on the hilt of her sword. He sees the movement and looks at her, eyes narrow.

“We had a _deal_ , Philippa,” with emphasis on the plosive. “Do you really want to do this now?”

“IF we must,” she says, drawing her sword.

“So you would kill me,” he says. “And lose your beloved daughter. The one _I_ found for you,” Lorca tsk tsks.

“What would Michael say to that? Her beloved Gabriel, felled by mother’s hand. Are you _jealous_? Angry you no longer control her?” He steps closer to Georgiou, circling slowly. “Or are you just mad I wouldn’t fuck _you_?”

She knows what he is doing. And she refuses to grant him any of it.

“I could have done this a long, long time ago,” he says, voice low. “Remember our deal, Philippa. I don’t cross you. You don’t cross me. Whoever breaks first, loses. Michael is _mine_. Consider her as…” he pauses. “Insurance.”

He laughs as he goes.

                                                                                                                                       

And she waits until he departs, before slamming her fists on the table. It is the only release of rage she will allow herself.

Gabriel will suffer for this.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

They meet when they can. Only when their ships are close—when travel is possible in hours, instead of days.

Shuttle transfers only, maintaining a safe distance. He ensures his crew’s loyalty as the Emperor’s top advisor. She ensures hers, as the emperor’s daughter.

It is possible, yet dangerous. One wrong move. One slip. And they are done.

There is freedom when one knows death is the only outcome.

She would die for him.

He grips her hips as she rides, thrusting deeply, watching her face as he kisses her chest, her back arched against his knees.

It is passion fueled by fear. Love. Consequence.

Suddenly, he stops and pulls her close, stilling her against him as he lowers her to her back, coming to rest on top of her, and her thighs engulf him again. The force of their coupling draws out the sounds—it is strong. Urgent. Desperate. Intense. When he pushes too hard she muffles her scream with her teeth against his shoulder.

 Her turn to mark him, as he has done her.

He is not her first. Nor she, his. But they are for each other only, now.

Fate be damned, and so are they. Yet both remain defiant.

.

.

“How many times will you stick your cock where it doesn’t belong, Gabriel?” Philippa comes to stand in front of him, the toe of her boot inches from his face as he is forced to the ground and shackled. He winces, yet doesn’t cry out even as a sharp knee to the back pins him.

The sudden force of her boot to his face makes his head snap back, the blood from a broken nose begins to pool quickly on the floor. But pain is temporary. And while war is worth fighting, he knows enough to choose his battles carefully.

From above, Philippa stares down at Gabriel with disgust.

“I gave you an opportunity,” she says. “And you threw it in my face. I warned you to stay away from her. And you disobeyed me. I will make sure you suffer for it.”

“Take him to the Charon,” she tells her guards before leaning down to Gabriel’s ear. “I will slaughter _everythin_ g you hold dear,” Philippa’s breath is warm against the side of his face.

He is dragged from the shuttle bay.

 

.

.

“Captain Burnham, an incoming transmission for you,” the communications officer says. “It is marked private.”

“Transfer it to my quarters,” she says, stepping down from the chair and striding toward the ready room.

“Seal doors.”

“Doors sealed.” The computer.

“Computer, activate transmission.”

Her lover’s face, appears. The message, automated.

“If you are receiving this, Michael,” Gabriel says, his eyes soft, “then I am likely dead.”

No.

_Oh please, no…._

She blinks, in disbelief.

But there are no tears.

Tears, she knows, are wasted here.

.

.

“What ails you, daughter?” Philippa continues eating as Michael sits quietly, back straight, eyes ahead not looking toward her, or anyone else.

Inwardly, she smiles.

“Is the Kelpian not up to your exacting standards? Or have those standards…slipped, recently?” She says, taking another sip of her soup.

“I am well, Emperor Georgiou.”

Emperor.

Once upon a time, it was mother.

A time before she grew up. A time before she learned the truth. A time before Gabriel. A very, very long time ago.

Michael closes her eyes, and takes the first sip of soup—something for her hands to do, to stop the trembling. But in the momentary darkness, she sees it all so clearly. What she could do. What she must. So no other child has to grow up as she did.

Philippa—her “mother”. Her captor. Her tormentor.

To punish a child for the sins of the parents…

“Why did you kill them?”

“I do not know of whom you speak,” the emperor says, taking a drink of wine.

“My parents.”

At that, the two women meet eyes. The silence becomes deafening.

Michael can feel the rush of blood in her veins. The pounding of her heart echoes in her ears. Yet she remains still, waiting.

“So that’s what Gabriel told you to sway you to his side,” Philippa laughs darkly.

“Did he ever tell you _he_ was the one to carry out my order, personally?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And yet, you believe him. You should know better, Michael. You know what he’s capable of. Do you not remember Ava? Katrina? Ellen? You were a child, but still…so many, many more. What makes you think you were special? Do you honestly believe he loved you? That he even could?”

“Stop it.” The words singe, like a phaser burn to her heart.

“No. I will _not_ stop it,” The emperor says, now standing, taking her time, and circling her ‘daughter’.

“Your parents died because they were _traitors_. And Gabriel will _die_ because he is a traitor as well. I told you that love was a weakness, and yet still you defy me, Michael. So that makes _you_ a traitor, too.”

“Guards!”

They move in quickly as Michael stands, fully prepared to defend herself.

“Take her to the brig.”

Michael grabbed before she can move, and carried away.

Philippa will kill Lorca. And she will let Michael watch the execution before she kills her too.

.

.

The agonizer earns its name, he thinks bitterly, as the screams are forced from him. In its way, it is like a distraction to his shattered, frayed nerves. Yet while his body grows weaker, his mind is never and will never be broken.

The doors to the brig are opened, and the machine momentary cut off allowing him to slump against the walls. It is a reprieve, a moment to gather himself and catch his breath.

But he sees her as she is ushered into a holding cell across from him and sealed in.

The guards leave, locking the doors. It is just the two of them.

“Gabriel. Can you hear me?”

In her face he sees the relief. He sees something else too, that he cannot deal with at the moment. At the moment, he knows the plan is working.

There are no guards.

“Are you ready, Michael?”

She nods.

They wait.

There are still allies here. It is time for them to go.

The doors to the agonizer booth open, and he takes the first steps, straightening his bent body.

Quickly, he keys in the access code, releasing her, and she comes to him, and takes his hand.

“The Jeffries tubes,” Gabriel whispers. “We’ve got 10 minutes.”

A brusque nod is her reply and they go quickly, climbing up to the ceiling and removing the plate, slipping into the vent before replacing the cover, and begin to crawl.

 He knows this ship inside, and out. He designed it. A weapon of war. An instrument meant to conquer worlds. They go, keeping their movements light, their breathing shallow. He stops. She does too as he turns, raising a finger to his lips.

 They’re here.

 Shuttle bay.

It is abandoned. But they know it will not last.

A panel is removed, and they slide down, quickly, making their way across the expanse until they reach the shuttle Burnham came in on.

She opens it, and he climbs in, but she hesitates.

“She’ll find out what we did,” Michael says.

“Yes. And believe me, my people know the sacrifices expected of them” he tells her. “They know the consequences.” He reaches out his hand to hers, looking her in the eye.

“Do you trust me?”

She bites her lip, considering it.

“But the people who helped us…”

“-- Will all be killed. But we need to live. _I_ need to live. And I need you to live too. Do you _trust_ me, Michael?”

He beckons to her.

“…this is bigger than us,” Gabriel cajoles. She pauses, her eyes on his.

“Do you love me?”

The question takes him off guard.

He glance toward the sealed shuttle bay doors, knowing they’re running out of time. It is the worst moment for her to ask this question.

“We have to go, Michael.”

“Do you love me? Did you kill my parents?” Philippa’s insidious words. It has seeped into her thoughts. Challenging everything she thought she knew. Even her love for him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Lorca says reaching into the shuttle and grabbing a phaser. He hits her across the head with the butt of it, knocking her unconscious. She slumps into his arms. He carries her into the shuttle.

They take off, right as the doors open.

But the imperial guard is not fast enough. Lorca keys in a set of coordinates. And they are gone in a snap of light, their warp trail quickly fading.

.

.

From her bridge, Philippa winces from the light of the shuttle as it disappears into space. She knows exactly what has happened. Why it happened.

 And so she waits, knowing one day Michael will return. And she will have Lorca in tow. There are only so many secrets that can be kept. And the truth, will break Michael far more than any lie ever told.

The way for Gabriel to die will be by Michael’s hand, not hers. And it will be a most cruel, and yet deserving death for him.

“The prisoners have escaped,” a messenger comes with news she already knows. “Should we go after them?”

“No.” She commands. “Spread the word. Gabriel Lorca has killed Captain Burnham. He is now a fugitive of the Empire. Round up Lorca’s accomplices, anyone loyal or even partial to him.  There will be no witnesses.”

The messenger bows and departs, leaving her to stare out at the wide, sparkling expanse of space.

“Oh Michael,” she speaks aloud to herself, heart heavy.

“You will learn that love is wasted here.”

Gabriel believes he knows her weakness. He believes he holds power over her. She will strip him of it.

Philippa would soon cleave out her own heart than to let him win. And she will.

Lorca took from her. And now she will take from him.

Michael is just another casualty of war.


	14. A Moment of Weakness

He holds her in his arms as she lies dying.  

The explosions rock the Buran as bulkheads begin to buckle all around them.

The ambush had caught them off guard as they worked to recruit more to their cause. Intelligence was spotty at best. Disconnected from their network inside the imperial palace and throughout the fleet, Michael and Gabriel had managed, just barely, to reach the Buran and escape from the planet that had served as a temporary shelter for them.

Time was up. 

He had held her hand as they ran, dodging the fire. But Michael was struck—right as the transporter caught them and beamed them back onboard the Buran.

And now, the worst of outcomes. They are losing.

 “Captain, I can’t hold her for much longer!” Landry shouts from across the bridge as the ship moans and quakes around them.

Another blast from the Charon sends her flying as the rest of the crew struggles to keep their crippled ship on course.

“Into the ion storm!” he shouts. “They won’t follow us there!”

“Stay with me, Michael,” he whispers, as her breathing becomes ever fainter.

Never has he felt the sort of fear he does now. There’s a trembling inside him, he can feel it in his gut.

She gasps and begins to cough, her mouth filling with blood, eyes turning red. He knows those signs. The blood seeping through from her chest coats his hands. His efforts at staunching the wound are fruitless. She’s bleeding out.  It is one battle Michael will not win.

It is all he can do to hold on to her as she gets weaker.

“Please, Gabriel,” she breathes, reaching out to him, her bloody hand gracing the side of his face. “Tell me…”

Her eyes are eloquent, pleading, and he wants so badly to say it, to tell her what he knows she wants and deserves to hear. He wants to tell her that yes, he does. That he did when she was 17 and he pushed her away because she was too young and new, innocent still, and he didn’t want to be the one to take that from her. Didn’t want to be the one to corrupt her, because he knew their world would do so soon enough.

 

He wants to tell her that she wasn’t a gift of conquest, that he didn’t spare her because he thought she could become some sort of twisted symbol, a trophy to be paraded before the resistance and the Empire, but that he spared her because she showed him his own humanity—something he’d long forgotten about in his years of service. He had found grace in the eyes of a 10-year-old orphan, who momentarily humbled him with her strength in the face of death, and he couldn’t bring himself to snuff out her light.

 

And he wants to tell her how long he’s watched her, as she scrapped and struggled and fought and loved and killed and cried and yearned—all with a passion unrestrained by the strictures imposed on the rest of them—not even Michael had known her own strength.

 

But does not want to weaken himself.

 

He cannot admit love, even now in the face of imminent separation. There is nothing more permanent than death.

 

It is a weakness he cannot allow even in his deepest heart. It is not for lack of want.

 

“My Michael,” he whispers to her as she goes, burying his face in her hair, rocking her gently, as much for her comfort as his own. His grief is boundless. His anger at Georgiou grows exponentially as Michael finally stops struggling, and gives in to the inevitable, going limp in his arms.

Around them, the sparks from electrical fires rain down.

“I swear I will find you again.” A promise. The one and only thing he can give her now.

His loyalty. 

It is in the moment of her last breath, that a blast from the ion storm rocks the ship, a pulsing white bolt of energy strikes him, ripping her away.

 


	15. Resolution

**Chapter 15**

When he wakes, he is on his ship.

But it is not his ship. And he is surrounded by soldiers, faces he knows but none he recognizes, guns drawn.

“Where am I?” He demands, bringing his prone body off the deck. Michael’s blood is all over him.

“Where is Captain Lorca?” They demand, and he shakes his head, stepping down from the platform.

They back up, eyeing him warily.

Everyone knows something is wrong.

“Where am I?” He asks. “What is this?”

“This is the Federation starship Buran,” an officer tells him, gun still pointed at his head. “And we’re only going to ask you once again, WHERE is Captain Lorca?”

It is then Gabriel realizes what has happened.

A different universe. The federation.

He knows the federation well from the Empire files.

.

.

The gases ignite.

The ship is gone in a bright flash.

Inside the shuttle, the U.S.S. Buran’s lone survivor.

He would say he feels sorry.

But he’s not.

 _Thanks for the clothes,_ he thinks to the other Gabriel Lorca, lost somewhere or dead. Who knows? He doesn’t care.

There are goals this Gabriel Lorca is focused on.

Getting back.

Getting home.

Getting revenge.

And he knows what his top priority will be.

Find Michael Burnham. _I’m coming for you love._

And he’s coming for Philippa, too.


End file.
